


Coyote Moon

by clgfanfic



Category: War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story behind Paul's Olympic bronze medal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coyote Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Green Floating Weirdness #5 under the pen name Gillian Holt.

_"I just did my best, sir."_

 

          Three things struck Paul Ironhorse as he entered the Olympic stadium in Mexico City – t he press of the crowd, the slight burning in his chest due to the altitude, and the number of brown faces that surrounded him.

          A hand descended on his shoulder.

          "This way, Cow," Stillman said, using the West Point euphemism for a third year cadet.  The tall, handsome senior grinned down at Paul.  "Pretty amazing, isn't it?"  A basketball player and captain of the 1968 U.S. Olympic team, Stillman appeared completely at ease with the situation, something that Paul envied – not to mention the view the cadet's six foot six inch stature afforded him.

          Paul nodded, side-stepping to avoid three young women who rushed past chattering in French.  "Yes.  It is," he said, noticing a group of people dressed in frayed jeans and short leather vests, long fringe dangling off the bottom and swirling around their mid-sections.  They sported peace signs painted on their faces and one carried a placard that read:  "Stop the Murder!  U.S. out of Vietnam!"

          They had all heard about the powerful and violent student revolts that had been squelched just before their arrival.  They were still going on in places around the city, but the Mexican government had promised to put an end to all of the activity before the opening ceremonies tomorrow.  Armed police were evident throughout the crowds.

          Paul shook his head and followed Stillman and the other military cadets who were there in Mexico City to compete in the nineteenth Olympiad.  There were seven of them from the Point, as well as three from Annapolis and one from the Air Force academy.  Putting aside their traditional rivalries, the group of eleven pressed their way through the throng, searching out their rooms before they were required to meet with the rest of the U.S. team for orientation.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          He was running across the Mexican countryside.  A blue sky stretched out clear and bright, and a slight breeze wiffled around him, making it comfortable despite the sunshine.  He pumped harder, the motion coming effortlessly.  He was one; himself and the terrain merging – he breathed the earth, the air passing through his skin.  For a moment he contemplated leaping into the sky and flying, knowing it was possible, but somehow not sure enough to try.

          Cresting a hill he stumbled to a sudden stop.

          "I've been waiting for you."

          Paul took a step back.  "Who are you?"

          "Can't you recognize me?"  The creature tsked.  "You're sorrier than I thought, Iron- _horse_."

          Paul pressed down his confusion and stared at the intruder.  It was a man, of sorts, with powerful long legs and a muscular chest.  He was wearing a breechclout woven with bright colors, the flaps hanging almost to his knees.  But it was his face that frightened Paul.  It wasn't a man's face.  It was Coyote.

          "Ah, you _do_ know me.  Good."

          "What do you want?"

          "Nothing," the creature leered.  "What could I possibly want from a scrawny Cherokee boy?  Why are you here?"

          "I'm running in the decathlon," Ironhorse said defiantly.

          Coyote laughed, the guffaws building into a wild howl.  "You?"  The laughter started again.  "Competing?"

          "What do you want?" Paul demanded.  "You wouldn't be here if you didn't want something."

          "Oh, he is perceptive, isn't he?" the creature replied, his eyes gazing heavenward.  The black orbs fixed back on the young man.  "I just wanted to tell you to relax, Paul Ironhorse.  You don't stand a chance, you know.  You, a skinny Indian boy.  You honestly think you represent your country?"

          Ironhorse bristled.  "Leave me alone."  He took a step away, but Coyote's words held him.

          "Your country?" the creature growled.  "You really do think you're representing your country, don't you.  Your _Army_.  The same Army that slaughtered the People.  Your country and your Army forced the People from their land, killed their children, raped their women.  And you run for them?"

          "I run for my People," Paul snapped.  "I run for _me_."

          "You're here because you want them to see you.  You want them to be proud.  You want them to see the good little Indian boy who's willing to kiss Uncle Sam's white ass and walk away smiling."

          "That's not true!"  Paul took a step closer to the grinning creature.  "That is my country!  It's been mine longer than they can remember.  But I _won't_ live in the past.  My father's there and all it's given him is a bottle that he sucks on to take away the memories, but they won't go.  It belongs to both peoples now."

          "Oh?  So that's why you submitted yourself to the Army?  That's why you're going to go kill yellow men after you try and win honor for the white men?"

          "I'm a warrior."

          "You're pathetic."  Coyote flexed his long legs and grinned at Ironhorse.  "I'll show you.  Catch me, if you can."

          The creature broke into a run, his long legs eating away the distance toward the horizon.  Paul sprinted after the retreating figure, but in moments Coyote was gone.

          He stopped, winded.  Resting his hands on his thighs, Paul bent over and sucked in deep several breaths.

          "Go home, red-boy," Coyote's voice echoed over the hills.  "Go home before they're all laughing at you."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Paul gasped and sat up.  He was breathing hard, and the sheets clung to his legs and mid-section.  He pealed the material away and swung his legs over the edge of the narrow bed.

          It had been a dream, just a dream.

          He glanced around the room.  The other three cadets still slept, Stillman snoring lightly in the darkness.

          With a heavy sigh, Paul lay back down.  Staring at the ceiling he tried not to think about what Coyote had said, but the tendrils of doubt already encircled his thoughts, choking off his enthusiasm.  Maybe he shouldn't be here…

          No!

          He blasted the thought away, refusing to give it power over him.  He had to think positively about this.  He was ready, he'd proven that by winning at the U.S. trials.  It wasn't the winning, anyway.  It was being here, giving it his best.

          Closing his eyes, he willed himself back to sleep.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "This is great!" one of the athletes enthused.  "Did you see all that leather?"

          Paul tried to ignore the cacophony of voices and sounds, concentrating instead on the faces of the people and the goods they were hawking.  The diversity struck him, and he smiled at an old man with onyx statues, who seemed to understand the quiet Cherokee boy who watched but didn't buy.

          Stepping away from the vendors who had set up an open air market just outside the Olympic Village, Paul wandered off, content to just observe the ebb and flow of the people.  Finding a deserted bench, he sat down.  Nearby a series of Olympic flags snapped and popped in the breeze.  He watched the undulating cloths with their inter-locking rings, representing the five continents joined together in peaceful competition and celebration of athletic excellence – blue, yellow, black, green, and red.

          He glanced back at the vendors.  They were red men and women as well.  Some of them were brown, but most showed their Indian stock more clearly than the Spanish.  He wondered what they thought of the games, of the athletes from all over the globe who now wandered through their hastily erected market.  A quarter-billion dollars in private and governmental monies was too much to spend on an essentially emerging nation, the papers lamented.  But many people in high places were quick to dispute the accusations, pointing out the enormous immediate and long-range benefits to the Mexican people.  Watching the vendors Paul wasn't sure which side was right; perhaps questions like that were impossible to answer now.

          "Citius, Altius, Fortius," he said softly.  The Olympic motto:  swifter, higher, stronger.  All countries and all athletes aspired to those ideals.  All peoples, he decided, did as well.  He did.  And was that so different from West Point's duty, honor, country?  They were all ideals, something to be strived for, not really in the grasp of individual hands, but hearts instead.

          The founder of the modern games had said that the important thing about the Olympic Games was not the winning, but the taking part, that the essential thing in life was not the conquering, but fighting well.  Wasn't he fighting well?  His people had been conquered, but that didn't mean they were defeated.  He could still fight well – fight in the same places as the men who had conquered his people.

          A small grin lifted his mouth.  He'd seen a very similar quote on a photo of a tombstone – "The main issue in life is not the victory, but the fight.  The essential thing was not to have won, but to have fought well."

          It had been engraved on the memorial to a legendary racehorse.  An ugly, scrawny Thoroughbred named Seabiscuit.

          Tomorrow the games would begin, and, for the first time, a woman would carry the torch into the stadium and light the Olympic flame.  Norma Enriqueta Basilio.  She was an Indian, too, at least in part, but she and Paul would not be seen as Indians, but as a Mexican and an American, their country's best, competing with the world's best.  And if they won the honor would be shared with country, people, family, friends…

          His thoughts were stilled when an old woman shuffled up and waved her hand over the empty end of the bench.  Ironhorse stood, and motioned for her to sit.  She smiled faintly and sank daintily to the cement slab.  Sitting a half-full burlap sack at her feet the old woman sighed heavily and gazed off toward the Olympic Village.

          "You come here for that?" she asked.

          Paul wasn't at all sure she was actually speaking to him, but nodded, and replied  "Yes, ma'am."

          "What will you do?"

          "I'm running in the decathlon."

          She grunted, raising a wrinkled brown hand to wipe the grey hair off her forehead, tucking it behind her ears.  "You win?"

          "I don't know," he replied.  "I'd like to, but…"

          "You not good enough?" she pressed.

          He had the feeling there was more to the question, but he wasn't certain, so he let it slide.  "I'm good, but the athletes here are the best from all over the world.  It's enough to be here and compete.  Winning is extra."

          The old woman turned to look at him, one hand raised to shade her black eyes from the sun.  When the visual scrutiny was over she reached out and pinched Paul's forearm between her surprisingly strong fingers.  "You small.  Maybe I fatten you up, then you get extra."  Paul grinned.  "Come."  She stood and scooped up the sack with a renewed vigor.

          "I can't," Paul explained, standing up.  "We can't leave the Village and the courtyards here unless we're escorted."

          She nodded to a small shack erected out of old shipping pallets just beyond the open market.  "You come."

          After a momentary warring between the spirit and the letter of the rule, Paul nodded and motioned for the woman to lead.  Reaching out, he took the sack from her and followed.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Almost overnight it seemed to Paul, he and the other athletes established a routine.  Up early, they headed for the training field, where they practiced and tried to acclimate to the thin air.  After a shower, they attended breakfast with the other athletes, meeting and talking to as many of the competitors in their individual events as they could.  Paul and other U.S. decathaletes soon discovered that their foreign counterparts were an interesting collection of individuals who shared one basic thing in common – besides a need to drive their bodies as far and as hard as possible – a desire to best the Germans, East and West.  The Germanies both seemed to have a particular love for the event, and their athletes were the targets of much good-natured teasing from the other decatheletes.

          After a short break, it was back to the field for more practice before they were allowed to go out and see the sights on coordinated tours – if the unusually heavy rainfall didn't result in a cancellation.  When he returned from the few excursions he attended, Paul would stop at the old woman's shack and drop off some item, usually food, that he'd picked up on his trip.  In return the woman fed him a dinner that had the cafeteria beat by a mile.

          After strategy meetings with the coach, it was one last practice before hitting the showers and turning in.  Once their events were over, the athletes could join in the many parties that lasted well into the night, but for now they had a curfew.

          It was the night-time Paul dreaded most.  Coyote returned with his dreams, taunting, condescending and cruel.  According to Coyote, Paul would not, _could not_ win.  He was there to make a fool of himself; make a fool of his People.  Each night they fought, and each night Coyote challenged Paul to a race.  Each night Paul Ironhorse lost.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Hey, sell-out!"

          Paul ground his jaws together and forced himself to keep running, ignoring the jester.

          Coyote appeared at his side, matching Paul stride for stride.  "You're getting closer to your humiliation."

          "My victory."

          Coyote barked, his lips curling off his teeth in a parody of a smile.  "You can't win until you beat me, and you'll never beat me."

          Coyote surged ahead, and Paul raced after the taunting, waving tail.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Paul and the other decathaletes waited impatiently while the new and stricter drug-testing was conducted.  It was just one of many things that the athletes were complaining about.  Paul caught another West Pointer's gaze and gave a slight shrug.  They were used to hurry-up-and-wait procedures.

          The most common gripe that Paul heard was about the thin air.  At 7,500 feet above sea level all the runners were suffering, although he felt the most sympathy for the long distance runners, who were reduced to sucking on oxygen bottles when they completed their events – or pass out in public.  A couple of the African runners appeared unaffected, and took great pleasure in enjoying the general suffering of their fellow competitors.

          Traffic jams made it difficult for athletes and visitors alike to move around the city, and an acute housing shortage had left some athletes' family members sleeping in hotel lobbies and rented cars.  And the consistently ineffective communications system meant that those like Paul, with no friends or family in Mexico City, couldn't reach them on the phone to pass along news.

          And, just for good measure, some of the competitors were suffering from dysentery – a fate worse than burning lungs, lousy connections and snarled traffic.

          Paul let the din of problems wash past him.  He wasn't interested in tours, or parties.  He didn't have family or friends to worry about, and since his grandfather had no phone, the congested lines were of no concern.  He'd managed to avoid the dysentery, and the thin air was something he'd just have to live with.  After all, the furthest he'd be running was 1,500 meters, and even if it was the last leg of the decathlon, it was a cakewalk when compared to the agony of the long-distance runners.

          Stepping into the small cubical with a doctor and an Olympic advisor, Paul was handed a bottle and told to urinate.  He followed the instructions and handed back the sample, was thanked and dismissed.

          So much for an honor code among the athletes.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          At the end of his first day of competition, Paul was a little more than surprised to hear he was still among the top ten.  The 100 and 400 meter sprints had gone well, better than the long jump and high jump, his two weakest events.  Peter Gabbett, a Briton with a wicked sense of humor, had run the fastest 400 meter in the history of the modern decathlon, 46.1 seconds, a full 4.3 seconds faster than Paul's own time, but he'd still come in third, and broke his own best record.

          The shot put had also gone well, and he trotted off to find the old woman and tell her that he was still in the running for a medal.  Passing through the market, he was surprised to realize he was glad to have someone to share his success with.

          A pang of regret passed through Paul, and he wished that his grandfather could be there to watch.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The old woman nodded when she heard the news, the wrinkles around the corners of her eyes deepening, telling Paul that she was happy for him.  She seldom smiled, and when she did, it was just a wisp of white teeth and slightly bent lips.  He assumed it was a part of her custom, and was content to notice the changing sparkle in her eyes.  She was proud of him.  She was an Indian, and she was proud – a Tarumara who had come to Mexico City when her sons had been offered work cleaning the stadium at night.

          Eating a plate of stew poured over fry bread Paul tried to imagine what it must have been like when Jim Thorpe had competed in the 1912 Olympics.  He'd told the old woman about the Native American who had inspired him.  Thorpe had attended a trade and boarding school for Indian boys, Carlisle University.  He'd been an apprentice tailor when his athletic ability was discovered by the school's football coach.  Almost single-handedly, Thorpe helped Carlisle defeat the premiere teams of the days, even the West Point team with cadet "Ike" Eisenhower on the field.  Paul grinned down at his plate.  That would have been a game to see.

          Thorpe's outstanding decathlon performance was not repeated until Bob Mathias had won the gold in 1948 and again in 1952.  Paul had memorized Thorpe's times in every event while training at the Point, and more than anything else he wanted to duplicate the man's victory.  Today he'd taken a giant step toward achieving that dream.  Paul knew he wasn't the overall athlete Thorpe was, but just matching the times, and bettering a few, would be his victory.

          Thorpe had been stripped of his medals, his records stricken from the official books, but if Paul Ironhorse had his way, those times would once again be included on the roles.  At the 1932 Olympics in Los Angeles, Thorpe received a standing ovation from 100,000 fans while he sat in the presidential box with Vice-President Charles Curtis, himself part-Indian.

          Coyote was wrong, he thought as he closed his eyes to sleep.  He was running for his People.  And he was winning.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Winning?"

          Paul stopped and turned.  Coyote was lying under a large shade tree.

          "I'm still in the competition for a medal."

          The creature's tail waved haughtily.  "We are, are we?"

          "Yes," Paul stated matter-of-factly.

          "And what are you going to do if you win?"

          That caught the young man off guard.  He didn't want to, but he asked anyway.  "What do you mean?"

          "Are you going to give it to West Point out of gratitude, because they _let_ you come?  Or display it for all the whites to ogle at?"

          "I'll give it to my grandfather."

          In a surprisingly quick move, Coyote leapt to his feet.  "Oh, that's a perfect solution!  Give it to your grandfather.  Respect your elders.  Why?" the creature challenged.  "You don't understand about the People.  You don't care about the history, the traditions and customs of the Cherokee.  Your grandfather's tried to teach you, but you've already been polluted by the white world.  When you had the opportunity to learn more, what did you do?  You ignored it.  It made you uncomfortable."

          "I was told it was all wrong!" Paul argued.  "The sisters and the priest told us that the old ways weren't right.  What was I supposed to do?  What am I supposed to believe?"

          "You're an apple.  Red on the outside, but white on the inside."

          "I am not!  I try, I—"

          "Try?"  Coyote paced around Paul.  "What?  What have you tried?"

          "I did my vision—"

          "And where did it take you?  Into the white man's Army!"

          "I'm a warrior!  I may not know my People, or myself that well right now, but I can learn!"

          "You're an apple, and until you can beat me, you'll stay an apple."

          Paul dreaded the race he knew was inevitable.  This time, however, he didn't wait for Coyote to spring away.  He lunged just as the creature broke, and together they raced over the hillside.

          Coyote's ears twitched back nervously, listening to Paul cling tenaciously to his heels.  With all the effort he could summon, Coyote pulled ahead and beat the young man to the top of a grassy hill.

          "Next time…" Ironhorse panted.  "I'll beat you."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          On the second day of competition Paul felt the drain that the altitude inflicted on all of the athletes.  The 110 meter hurdles had left his chest aching and burning and he'd been forced to use the bottled oxygen when bright white and yellow spots began exploding in front of his open eyes at the end of the race.  He'd managed to just ease past one of the Australians, and come in fourth, but Jeff Bannister – considered the top American running in the decathlon – had tripped up during the event, scoring no points and guaranteeing that he would not see a medal in '68.  Bannister's defeat had thrown a pall over the rest of the U.S. team, and they knew that their chances for a medal had all but evaporated.

          Paul placed third in the javelin and fourth in the discus throw and surprised himself, the competitors, and the crowd by taking first in the pole vault.  The coach had wrapped him in a hug when he'd managed that one, hefting him off the ground and carrying him back to the exuberant congratulations of his fellow teammates, including Stillman, who had stopped by to watch.

          The only event remaining was the 1500 meter run.  Paul concentrated on stretching out his already overtaxed legs.  They always saved the best for last, he thought, and shook his head, rubbing away the sweat that almost rolled into his eyes.  It was the hardest event, coming at the end of two days of intense competition.  The make 'em or break 'em event, as his coach at the Point described it.  The object wasn't to win the 1500 meter race, the object was to survive it, to actually finish.

          A hand clapped down on his shoulder and Paul jumped.  "Sorry," the coach said with a grin, "didn't mean to startle you."

          "Something up?" Paul asked.  The coach made it a point not to interfere with his athletes just before an event, telling them he wanted them mentally prepared and a little focused, individual concentration was the best way to get it.

          "I just got the news, you're still in the running for a medal, Paul."

          That wasn't possible.  "You're sure?"

          "Of course I am," was the smiling reply.  "But there's a catch."

          Ironhorse shifted, stretching out his calves.  "Do I want to hear this?"

          "If you can come in first or second, you'll have the bronze locked up."

          "First or second?"  His eyes fell shut.  He would rather _not_ have heard that.  He couldn't do it.  Not against the Soviet and German runners.

          "Give it your best, Paul," the coach said, squeezing the cadet's shoulder.  "You've got more heart than any athlete I've ever worked with.  Use it."

          "I'll try," Paul said, his ears burning slightly in embarrassment.

          "I know you will," the coach said.  "Good luck."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Paul paced along the edge of the track, waiting for the call to go to the starting blocks.

          "You honestly think you can do it?"

          A cold chill quaked through Paul's body and goose-flesh rose across his arms and legs.  He turned.  Coyote.

          "Surprised to see me?"

          To say the least…  Paul glanced around.  The stadium was nearly full with spectators.  Other athletes moved around in anxious anticipation, all of them oblivious to the creature standing next to him.  "Yes," Paul said softly.

          "I'm just here to watch you lose."

          Paul's jaws ground tight, and he fought back the desire to take a swing at the taunting creature.  The ready bell sounded and he turned away from Coyote, almost stomping over to his place.

          Before he realized it, he was set in the block, and the gun sounded.  He broke from his crouch, his attention fixed on his pace and breathing.  Without knowing when or how, he realized he was running over his dream hills, the green grass bending beneath his feet.  In the corner of his eye he saw Coyote keeping pace with his.  Paul pushed slightly, easing ahead of the creature, but Coyote returned to his position alongside.

          Paul felt his chest burning, but ignored the pain, focusing instead on finding that place where he was one with the land and the run.  His legs loosened up, and he picked up speed, pulling ahead again.  Coyote responded with a burst of speed, surging past Paul.

          Looking over his shoulder, Coyote's lips rolled up, showing his teeth in a triumphant smile, but it faded just as fast when Paul's eyes narrowed and he stretched out more.

          A pang in his chest was the only discomfort Ironhorse felt as he narrowed the distance between him and Coyote.  The creature looked worried, and that more than anything spurred the cadet on.  With a whisper of a smile he pulled past Coyote.

          The shift was abrupt and jarring.  The stadium crowd was on its feet, their cheering drowning out the announcer.  Paul was even with one of the Soviet decathaletes, another just in front of them.  With a final push Paul inched past the man, crossing the finish-line a half-step ahead.

          Veering off the track and onto the grass, he felt his knees give way and he fell heavily to the ground, gasping for air while his chest burned in agony.  A plastic mask was clamped over his mouth and he forced his eyes open.  The coach was beaming.

          "You did it!  Goddamn, but you did it!  I couldn't believe it!  No one believed it!  That was the best damned effort I've ever seen!"

          Paul let his eyes fall closed again, content to enjoy the feeling of cool oxygen moving into his lungs.

          "Hey, Apple!"

          His eyes sprang open.

          Coyote cocked his head to one side.  "Good race."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Standing on the platform, Paul's eyes followed the American flag as it was lifted along with the two Soviet flags representing the gold and silver medal winners.

          The weight of the bronze medal hanging around Paul's neck made him lift his head a little higher.

          As the Soviet anthem ended, Paul's eyes drifted over to the crowd.  There was no sign of Coyote, but he was surprised to see Major Wilson standing with several of the other West Point athletes.  When did he get here?

          The major smiled and gave Paul an enthusiastic thumbs up, making Paul blush.

          Stepping down, he made his way over to join the major and the other cadets, accepting their congratulations with quiet thanks.

          "Glad I was able to get down here in time to see that run.  Good job, Paul," Wilson said, wrapping an arm around Ironhorse's shoulders and leading him off slightly.  "I'm proud of you.  The Point will be proud.  That was a helluva run."  He chuckled.  "The announcers just couldn't believe that a scrawny little Indian kid could pull it off.  Guess you showed them, huh?"

          Paul shrugged.  "I just did my best, sir."

          "I know.  That's why I'm proud."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Paul stopped at the edge of the market, his eyes scanning the haphazard collection of dwellings, trying to find the pallet shack the old woman lived in.  He hunted through the throng of people and hovels, but it was gone.  Turning back toward the Olympic Village he pushed past the people, a few stopping him to congratulate him on his win.

          "Ironhorse."

          He turned.  The old woman and Coyote stood, watching him.

          "You are of the People," the old woman said.  "Learn their ways well.  One day you will need the wisdom to save both your People."

          Paul nodded, feeling slightly numb.

          Coyote tilted back his head and loosed a howl, them swished his tail and disappeared.

          "He out-smarted himself again," the old woman cackled.  "Silly, Coyote.  He never learns."  With that she faded into the crowds.

          Paul shook his head and headed back for the Village.  He had time to make it to the basketball court.  With luck, Stillman would bring back another medal to the Point.  He glanced back over his shoulder.  When he got home again he'd have to ask his grandfather about Coyote, and an old woman who helped the People.


End file.
